Ninth Circle
by Isobel Morgan
Summary: Albert Flight sits in his cell and waits for judgement.
1. Chapter 1

**Ninth Circle.**

"Do you know? You are to be released from your Purgatory."

That was the first thing Shine had said to him in the cells, after what seemed like hours of silence. It must have been clear what had happened to bring them both there. For all his faults, Shine wasn't stupid; he must have known what Flight would do from the moment he'd pulled the gun on Shine. No doubt he'd been expecting Reid to come for him, but still he said nothing to Flight. Probably knew that would be worse, to make him wonder what Shine was planning. He knew Flight - the real Flight - better than anyone, and now he had chosen to speak, he was demonstrating that. He'd always mocked Flight for clinging to his childhood Catholicism, that need for confession and absolution, but he'd used it too, the knowledge of the guilt that followed Flight around like a shadow, to manipulate him at every turn.

And now Shine was gone, having played his hand and won, leaving Reid no choice but to release him, having dragged all of Flight's guilty secrets out into the light. They hadn't known what to do with Flight, so they'd locked him back up and left him there.

Purgatory.

As comparisons went, that was suitably apt. Though Flight knew his sins meant he was destined much lower than that. He'd not had much schooling as a child, but since his... reinvention, as Shine put it, he'd read as widely as he could, and of course Dante had come his way. Of all the circles of Hell, the ninth, the last, the worst, was reserved for those who betrayed others.

Judas.

That was one of the things the other policemen hissed at him when they passed, learning what he'd done and why he was there. Flight made no reply; it was true, after all.

Through his weakness, that was what he had done, betrayed good men who had trusted him, for a man who epitomised evil. Was that worse than his actual crimes? Both before Shine had recruited him and after; all of them haunted him. Every time he saw a blind beggar on the street, he wondered if this was one of the people he had, in his ignorance, poisoned.

He knew that guilt and regret were useless things, but still he clung to them as he did the religion of his parents, his homeland. Flight barely remembered his mother; vague memories of them kneeling in front of the wooden crucifix mounted on the wall of their home, her teaching him to make the sign of the cross, how to say his Hail Marys. She'd called him "my Bertie", and smiled, that much he did remember. Any other memories were confused, unsure if they were real or dreams, the hopes of what she would have been like had she lived. Holding her hand on her deathbed as she faded - had that been real? Watching her suffer... It felt real, though in his mind, she personified his guilt and shame.

"Be a good boy, Bertie. You've a good heart: listen to it."

But he hadn't, and when he thought of his mother, he thought of the person he should have been, what she'd wanted him to be. Without her, he'd been weak and done bad things, evil things. A good heart didn't count for much if you didn't listen to it.

As for his father...

As a man, Flight could see the situation differently. Losing his wife, being stuck with the care of a young child, alone, on top of all his other troubles, it was no surprise the man had turned more and more to drink. But as a frightened and bereaved five-year-old, all he'd been able to see was a man become a monster, and that was the lesson that had stuck. The world wasn't fair, bad things happened, why bother to even try to be good? Of course he wasn't the only boy whose father beat him, there wasn't a boy on the street who didn't get a clip from his Da, but did the other fathers tell their sons they wished they were dead, instead of their mothers? That they wished they'd never been born? Maybe they did. It wasn't something anyone would ever talk about, but it left young Albert so afraid, all the time. And Da hadn't gotten any better, people were noticing, though they never intervened. That was a man's own private business, they said, something he heard wherever he went. It wasn't until he became a policeman that he started to question that; why did people never pry? When a man drank himself senseless every night, while his son went about black-eyed, in clothes too small and boots worn out? Or maybe they did. Maybe his father had turned them away with the same fury he directed at his son, in the time between drunkenness and unconsciousness, when fists spoke as often as words.

And then...

Flight closed his eyes, leaning back against the cell wall.

He hadn't thought about the day his father died in years, had tried his hardest not to, never confessed it, even when he spilled his heart out to a priest about everything else.

That memory was hazy too. Was it a year after his mother's death? The days had blurred, with little to differentiate them, and the night had started like any other. His Da, coming home from the pub, stumbling up the stairs to their room, (they shared a house with two other families, all of whom ignored Albert and his father as best they could, perhaps wary of drawing his father's anger their way), cursing with every step. Albert huddled in his cold bed, trying to make himself invisible, hoping against hope that this time, _this_ time, it would be all right. But of course it wasn't, and the moment the latch opened, his father was calling out for him, cursing him and somehow, Albert knew this couldn't go on. It wouldn't get any better, never. He couldn't stay here.

So he leapt from his bed, and bolted out of the room, ducking under his father's arm and out into the hall, sprinting down the stairs. Taken by surprise, his father hadn't realised what was happening until Albert was almost at the front door.

"Boy!" His father bellowed. "Get back here!"

Albert tried to open the front door latch, but it was high up, and he was small for his age. As he strained to reach up, his father came thundering down the stairs after him, shouting loud enough to wake the whole street. Maybe he caught his foot, or maybe he was just too drunk to manage the stairs at any speed, Albert never knew. But he fell.

There weren't many steps, but his father was a heavy man, and the drink always made him clumsy. He went down headfirst and by the time he reached the floor, he was quiet.

For what seemed an age, the whole house, street, town was quiet. Then people started to come out to see what had happened.

The neighbours brought lamps out, so they could see Albert's father lying dead on the ground, his neck broken in the fall. Someone was sent to fetch help. Albert didn't remember much of what happened next. No-one blamed him, not outright, but they didn't help him either, and eventually the magistrate sent him off to the workhouse, with all the other unclaimed orphan children.


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

He'd stayed in the workhouse til he was twelve, when he'd overheard a group of older boys planning their escape and convinced them to let him come with them. They were going to run to the coast and stow away on ships bound for cities, where they could build lives of their own, instead of staying locked in poverty and destitution as they would here. Albert had never been anywhere but the workhouse and the little town he was born in, but he had no home anymore, and he hated the workhouse.

It wasn't the work, or the cold, or the lack of food he hated, that he was used to, but the continued lesson that he was nothing, that the world wanted him dead and it would be better if he was. Even the schoolteachers, who were the only ones to make any effort to improve these ragged, desperate children, between teaching them to read and write and pray, told them they were nothing but burdens, and should be thankful for the sparse care they got, for they wouldn't get it anywhere else.

The boys' plan sounded as good an opportunity as he was likely to get, and he was fast enough on his feet to keep up with them, so they let him come along.

The ship had been awful; hiding in the hold with the cargo, suffering terrible sickness, never daring to make a sound for fear of discovery, and being flung overboard. Some of the older boys had signed on with the navy, giving up on the idea of finding new homes when faced with the opportunity of work and pay right away, but Albert was too afraid to join them. The Navy meant going off to war, and he'd seen too many men crippled and scarred by that when he was in the workhouse, heard their stories of battles and the cruelty of their commanding officers, who sounded worse than the workhouse masters.

So he and an older boy named Doyle had stowed away on a ship bound for London, which sounded huge and exciting. It must be better than what they'd come from, right?

But a place was just a place, and Flight didn't listen to his 'good heart' or the memories of his mother anymore. He'd been told so often he was nothing, worthless, a sinner, that he believed it, and been led astray, further and further. Why should he care if he hurt others, when no-one had ever been kind to him?

But doubts nagged at him, guilt worn in so deep it could never come off, and that was what Shine had seen, when he'd first arrested him. A man he could make use of, and so Flight had continued to ignore his conscience as best he could, right up until the day he'd joined the police.

He'd never known men like the other policemen before, and from that point on, he worked as hard as he could to leave the man he'd been behind, forgotten. But Shine had made that impossible, deliberately making it harder for him to even try, knowing that he needed Flight to remember what he owed Shine.

And what now? Shine was a free man, and Flight was useless to everyone. Would they punish him for his crimes, the ones he admitted to and the ones Shine had, until now, made vanish? He could hang; it wouldn't take much, not with every police officer in H Division against him, not to mention Chief Inspector Abberline.

But as Shine had so triumphantly pointed out, to do so would be to risk the integrity of the entire Metropolitan Police, and it made Flight sick to his stomach to think how that could be true.

What was worse, much worse, was the fear that they would just hand him over to Shine, to do with as he pleased. Shine would surely kill him and it wouldn't be quick either. Would it be the garotte?

The thing he most feared was that they would just push him into the boxing ring and that Shine would beat him to death, in front of all the people he'd betrayed, from H Division, Bloomsbury, Limehouse: all of Shine's other men, who would see his weakness and fear as Shine took him down. He wouldn't stand a chance against Shine, he knew that. Few men would.

His aversion to violence had amused Shine, a man to whom brutality came as easily as breathing. Maybe he'd guessed where it stemmed from in Flight's childhood.

Had he really come all this way only to find himself in the same place? A frightened boy, awaiting another beating, too scared to fight back?

* * *

Flight tried to escape these thoughts, but they went around and around, and here in this cell, there was nothing to distract him. They'd even had to release the conman, Werner, so the other cells were empty.

Something good... His mind went automatically to Evelyn, though that brought another flinch of guilt. He'd done nothing but lie to her, use her as part of the investigation. Yet... she'd asked him to go with her. What if he had done so? Would it have been so different from when he'd left home, as a child? And what if she found out the truth about him, both truths, what then? His criminal past she might forgive, having spent most of her life around criminals of one sort or another. That she might understand, but his policing? She'd known he wasn't who he said he was, but had she even suspected what he'd really been doing? And the way she kissed him...

If he'd been himself in that situation, he would have thought her rather forward, brazen even, but as another man it was different, and Evelyn had managed to make it seem... right, rather than shameful. Bring in disguise had been liberating, in truth, allowing him to see things, people differently when he didn't have to be himself. But that was dangerous thinking. Not being himself, the man he should be, had put him on this wrong path in the first place, and for all his feelings for Evelyn, they were more for the idea of her, rather than the reality. If he followed her now, regardless of whether she would she accept him, it would all be in pursuit of a fantasy, one that could never turn out right.

Running away as a boy had been in the hope of bettering his life. To do so now would be cowardly, to try and escape all that he'd done instead of facing up to it.

And in truth, the decision wasn't his. Inspector Reid was the one who held Flight's future in his hands. Maybe he would gladly ship Flight off, to be rid of him.


	3. Chapter 3

**3**

A rattle of keys.

Someone was coming down to the cells. Flight's heart leapt, the blood pounding in his veins and he forced himself to appear steady.

It was the booking Sergeant, Artherton. The man had always been civil to Flight, almost friendly as time went on, and the disappointed look the man wore since hearing Flight's first admission of his guilt was, in some ways, worse than the outright threats, insults and bile from some of the other men.

"Soon enough, everyone will be away to the fight."

It took a moment for Flight to understand what Artherton was saying; of course, the Championship Final between police departments. So they weren't planning to push Flight into the boxing ring in place of Wainwright. That was something.

"The hope is that Shine won't be walking out of that boxing ring. Might be best for you if he didn't."

Flight said nothing. He knew how unlikely it was anyone would defeat Shine, let alone kill him.

"Wouldn't make everything go away, mind. But Inspector Reid..."

The other man jangled the keys in his hand.

"He has your back, lad. Despite what you might think."

Flight looked up in disbelief.

"And if you're thinking you don't deserve that, then you're right, you don't."

Artherton was as stern as a schoolteacher, or one of the workhouse disciplinarians.

"He's a rare man, is Mr Reid. There's not many'd look to forgive what you did to him."

"I know that."

Flight's voice sounded small to his ears, as if coming from far away. Artherton gave him a pitying look.

"I'd never've thought it of you, lad. But then that Inspector Shine... He had you right where he wanted you, didn't he?"

Flight nodded, bitter shame flooding through him.

"I'm not saying it makes it right. But Inspector Reid and I did discuss how it would be if we were to come back from the fight and find you not to be here anymore."

He raised the keys once more. Flight stared at them, then back up at Artherton, scarcely able to believe what was being offered.

But he shook his head.

"I couldn't..."

"I can't say what'll happen to you if you were to remain."

"Shine'll kill me."

"Then I'd find myself a long way from Whitechapel or Limehouse, if I was you."

Flight shook his head again, fear rising up again, threatening to take over.

"He'll find me. No matter where I go. He has eyes and ears everywhere, I can't-"

Artherton sighed.

"I thought as much."

"No matter what my punishment here will be - and I would deserve it, whatever is decided."

Flight swallowed hard, battling to keep himself under control.

"I would choose that over facing Inspector Shine again."

Artherton looked him over.

"Are you sure, son?"

Flight nodded, resolute.

Artherton pocketed the keys once more.

"I'll tell Inspector Reid. But to repeat myself, I can't say what'll happen to you if you remain here."

Flight leaned back against the wall, turning his head away from the other man to stare at the bricks opposite him.

"I'll face whatever comes my way, sir."

* * *

The hours that followed seemed like days. Knowing what must be happening, yet not knowing was torture. Would Shine kill Wainwright? There was a good chance he would, whether out of his own perverse sadism or as another way to get at Reid; it wouldn't be enough to just defeat the H division champion, Shine would have to destroy him, and Reid would feel personal responsibility for the man's death, the way he did about Flight's predecessor, Hobbs, the man they wouldn't talk about.

Eventually, Flight heard the station begin to fill up again, as those on duty came back from the fight. But it was another agonising hour or so before anyone came down to see him, and Flight was extremely surprised that it was Reid himself, and that he was alone.

Nervous, Flight got to his feet, facing his erstwhile boss.

"Inspector."

"Still here, then?"

Reid seemed distracted, but not as Flight had expected him to be. Wainwright must have survived.

"Yes, sir."

Reid stared down at him, and Flight again felt like a child before a parent - not his own parents, but the idea of one, someone who would teach and instruct, but also punish. He forced himself not to look away, facing the disapproval, disappointment and whatever else would come his way.

"Inspector Shine is dead."

Flight was utterly astonished. Shock robbed him of the ability to speak and he felt his legs start to shake. He put a hand to the wall to steady himself, and his surprise must have been clear to Reid.

"I convinced Sergeant Drake to take Wainwright's place in the ring."

Flight nodded. That was the only way it could have taken place. But much as it had been a necessity, that could not be sitting well with Drake or Reid.

"You understand that this is not how I wanted this situation resolved?" Reid asked, his voice professional and controlled, giving nothing away.

Flight nodded again, fighting to keep his head up and not to hide away in shame.

Reid took hold of the bars in front of him, fingers curling tightly around the metal, his hidden anger rising up.

"But nonetheless, it is resolved. With Shine no longer in place to run things, his schemes will begin to fall apart, and this department will do its best to see an end to them all."

Flight nodded a third time. He still couldn't think of a thing to say.

"I will be working closely with Chief Inspector Abberline to find a man suitable to replace Shine, to ensure that Limehouse is brought under control."

Reid leaned in, toward the cell bars.

"All the things he did... I need to know everything you know. Even if you were not involved. _Everything_."

Flight swallowed, trying to find his voice.

"Yes, sir."

"I mean it, Flight. I will not allow the reputation of the Metropolitan Police to be tarnished by this man's actions any more than I would allow it to be harmed by yours."

Flight was forced to drop his gaze, the shame burning within him becoming overwhelming.

"Of course, sir."

An awkward silence filled the room.

There were so many things Flight wanted to ask, but couldn't bring himself to.

Reid took a step back, folding his arms, some of his intensity fading.

"Chief Inspector Abberline wants you punished," Reid said, finally and Flight felt a little hiccup of fear within.

"Yes sir." His voice was little more than a whisper, and he hated that, hated that weakness.

"That's all you have to say?"

Anger was seeping into Reid's voice again, and Flight wondered what had happened at the fight. Reid was more than just disappointed he couldn't see Shine hang for his crimes; something else was in play here. But that wasn't Flight's business, unless Reid made it so.

"You know my feelings, sir. I am ashamed of what I've done, and know I deserve punishment."

"Even if it is to be whipped?"

Reid was pushing him, Flight knew that. He had to summon his courage now, and meet the man's eyes.

"Even if it is to be hanged, sir."

That visibly surprised Reid.

"What would that achieve?"

Reid stepped back up to the bars, and Flight couldn't quite read his expression.

"I know what I've done. What happens now is down to you, sir."

"Artherton offered you the chance to leave."

"I know that."

"And yet you stayed, even if it meant the rope for you."

"Yes sir."

Flight felt stronger now. He was standing by his convictions. If only he could have done that years ago.

Reid continued to stare at him.

"That's something, I suppose."

Another long silence.

"You cannot remain within this department," Reid said.

"You were right, the work you did here was good, but that doesn't balance out everything else. I thought about transferring you to another division, but that won't be enough. This will follow you."

Flight did not reply. Already, this was better than he'd dared hope.

"Do you wish to remain a policeman?"

"Yes."

Flight's answer came a little too quickly; he couldn't hold it back.

"I do, sir. It's all I wish to be."

Reid thought this over.

"Perhaps another city would be acceptable. Have you ever considered returning to Ireland?"

Flight shook his head, vehement.

"No, I couldn't... that part of my past... I do not want to be reminded of that."

Reid was thoughtful, yet again seemed distracted.

"This is not something to be resolved immediately. I have... other matters to attend to."

Both men regained something of their usual composure.

"Of course, sir."

For a very brief moment, Reid seemed to smile.

"Take heart, Flight. I shan't leave you here forever."

And then he left, leaving Flight feeling far better than he had for days.


	4. Chapter 4

**4**

However, as Reid had said, it was not something that could be quickly resolved.

Flight remained in his cell for days, brought out only to write statement after statement, all he knew about Shine and his operations; who had been in the man's pay, which criminals had claimed his protection, who else might be brought down now that Shine was gone. Flight had no idea how much practical use his testimony was, but Reid was adamant that it should all be recorded and Flight found this whole procedure almost calming. He wasn't betraying anyone now; he was a police officer sharing information that could lead to the capture of criminals, and the thwarting of their plans. It was as close to the work he wanted to be doing as was possible, given the circumstances. He felt useful again, and that was what he needed. If he was ever going to find redemption of any kind and avoid ending up in that ninth circle of Hell, then it was through work, good work.

But as this all went on, Flight sensed that there was a lot else happening; this was not just about cleaning house in the Limehouse division, or even problems within Whitechapel. The whole of H division seemed troubled, and it wasn't about Flight and his crimes. No-one came to see him, but he saw the other men come and go, bringing the usual procession of lowlifes through the cells, and neither Drake nor Jackson were ever among them. The uniforms were careful about what they said when Flight could overhear them, but he saw the way they looked at Reid, how troubled they were, and he realised the department was falling apart. It hadn't been caused by his betrayal, but Flight knew his actions had made things worse; how had killing Shine affected Drake? Especially coming so soon after the loss of his wife and subsequent... troubles.

It wasn't long after that Flight learned Drake had indeed left H Division, seeking a position elsewhere, and Jackson was no longer working for the police, a rather acrimonious parting, and so he wasn't surprised when Reid turned him loose as well.

What did surprise him was that Reid insisted on accompanying him out of the station, escorting him back to his lodgings so they could speak more privately.

"In some ways, I shall be sorry to lose you, Flight."

Flight did not understand.

"Inspector?"

"I intend to focus the work of the department on creating a better archive, a veritable library of criminals and their activities so that we may know the movements of every man, woman and child within Whitechapel."

This was not unexpected. Flight had never seen a police department so well organised in its record keeping.

"I know you had no liking for the archive work, but you had a talent for it."

Reid appeared to be thinking out loud, but Flight was pleased nonetheless.

"I will need every capable man available to me. Particularly now that..."

Reid trailed off, clearly thinking of Drake and Jackson.

"But I cannot keep you in my employ," he continued, pulling himself back together. "It would not stand, Flight, not knowing what I do of you. And the men would not accept you back."

"I know that."

"I can write you a reference, should you find another department to take you on. The more... sordid details of your past will remain hidden; it would serve no-one for them to see the light of day."

Flight felt an enormous rush of relief and gratitude. Reid was indeed a rare man.

"What does Chief Inspector Abberline say to this?"

"He does not know. Though he would not want it made public either."

Flight absorbed this silently, walking aside the other man.

"Sergeant Drake has gone to Manchester," Reid said, as if simply making polite conversation. "He may know of a position for you, were you to write to him."

"I am already greatly in Sergeant Drake's debt," Flight replied, carefully.

"You mean for killing Shine?" Reid's voice was sharp. "We are all in his debt for that action."

"May I ask, sir..?" Flight was hesitant, not wanting to push his luck. "Was that why he left?"

Reid's face shuttered closed, giving nothing away.

"I am not privy to the reasoning behind Sergeant Drake's decisions. Officially, he claims the death of Mrs Drake is what caused him to seek pastures new."

"And unofficially?"

"I do not give it much thought."

That was very obviously a lie, but Flight didn't push it. He would add asking for forgiveness for forcing Drake into that action to his prayers. It was already a long list.

They reached Flight's lodgings, and stopped outside.

"I thank you, Inspector," Flight said, and risked extending his hand, but he needn't have worried. Reid shook it firmly.

"For everything. And I promise you, I will not forget this second chance you have granted me, nor will I ever let you down."

"Keep that promise, Flight. Be the man you want to be, wherever you go."

"I will."

Reid turned and went back the way they'd just walked, not looking back. Flight realised he was unlikely to ever see or hear from the man again, which made him a little sad, but he knew he should be grateful for all that he had, far more than he deserved. Wherever he went - and he still found himself wondering what it would be like to be a policeman in New York - he would do his best to atone for his sins.

Shine had taunted him with the idea of Purgatory, but perhaps that was what Flight needed; a way to be purged of his sins, and to be a good man, one who listened to his heart the way his mother wanted him to. Maybe that way he could be forgiven.


End file.
